


Tumblr ficlets 2016

by linguamortua



Series: Ficlet archives by calendar year [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Bad Poetry, Classique Kylux, Cunnilingus, Drug Use, Established Relationship, F/F, Lesbians, M/M, Poetry, Sugar Daddy, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 23:43:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10372548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: All works under 1000 words and originally posted in my 'ficlets' tag on Tumblr in 2016.Each individual ficlet is linked back to Tumblr in the chapter notes - if you like it, please consider reblogging and letting your followers know!





	1. Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow: Submersion in cool water

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/137239322418/hey-internet-friends-300-of-you-genuine). This is set in the _Four Pines_ universe.

‘I’ll do it,’ Jack threatened, balancing on the balls of his feet and ready to strike. Brock wavered on the bank, watching the way Jack shifted his weight on the river-slick rocks at the water’s edge. He was stripped down to his boxers, apparently immune to the chill, and grinning.

‘It’s fucking freezing,’ Brock said, ‘and I don’t have a towel.’

‘Aw, c’mon,’ said Jack, ‘it’ll be fun. It’ll be like training all over again.’

‘You thought our training was _fun_?’ Brock had some fine scars from those few months twenty years ago; hell, Jack was worse-off than Brock was. ‘Sounds like that concussion in Bogotá hit you pretty hard.’

‘Nice clean water,’ countered Jack, changing tack. ‘We’ll work up an appetite for dinner. And a beer.’ He slid a little closer and Brock danced back, his sneakers slipping on the damp grass. Not far enough - Jack grabbed him around the waist and hauled them both into the water.

Brock yelled until the cold hit him and snatched away his breath. The river current tugged at them, and then Jack let him go and he broke the surface with a gasp, spitting out some water. His clothes were heavy on his skin, dragging at him.

‘If I drown,’ began Brock. Jack took hold of him and rolled them under the water again, sporting like an otter.

The river wasn’t particularly deep here, and every now and then Brock’s feet brushed the sandy riverbed. Brock could swim, adequately if not well, but the experience of being adrift in a cold river in the mountains was new. Not entirely comfortable, either. 

Jack looked as though he’d been born in the water. Brock struggled to look away. Something moved against his toes and he tucked them up away from the riverbed.

‘I swear something just brushed my foot,’ Brock called over, sculling gently against the current.

‘Fish, probably,’ Jack said, swimming over and reeling Brock in by the front of his wet shirt. ‘But don’t worry. They don’t bite unless you wriggle your toes.’ He smiled and pressed his face into Brock’s neck. ‘I might bite you, though.’


	2. Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/137567200123/happy-birthday-is-it-still-your-birthday-time).

The sound of whistling woke him up. He came to slowly, cautiously, his mind shrinking away from the unnerving reality that he was not in his own bed, and that he could not remember where he was or how he came to be here. The sheets were soft with age and washing and they smelled like laundry powder. There was the faint smell of paint coming from outside and someone mowing a lawn several houses away. A full glass of water on the bedside table, and the clean boxers he was wearing, suggested that someone had at least a little care for his welfare. Next to the water, a reading light and two books on military history.

He sat up very slowly, the wall chilly against his back. He ached all over but there was no real pain. Bruising mottled his right arm and right hip, and his jaw was stiff and sore. When he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, he found that his body felt as though he’d run a marathon. Curious. 

Clothes - folded on the chair by the door, haphazard but clean. He put them on and they fit. He took the water from the bedside table and drained it all, because a good soldier made the most of circumstances. Thus clothed and refreshed, he followed the whistling which seemed to move as he passed doorways, the sound floating in and out of open windows. There was nobody upstairs. Downstairs, the house was just as empty but the back door stood open so he stepped through it into the pocket-handkerchief patch of back yard.

There was a tall man painting a fence in an off-white colour. The man made long, careful strokes, dipping his brush with uncanny regularity. He was whistling, the same motif over and over again. Muscular, scarred, dark-haired. The early-morning sun illuminated him in odd bars and stripes as it filtered through the fence. The lawnmower stopped and a dog barked once in confusion.

He watched the man paint for a few minutes, trying to breathe quietly. The man wasn’t armed, although his physique screamed soldier.

‘Gonna stand there and indulge your blue-collar fantasies all morning?’ said the man eventually. He turned with a grin. ‘Jesus, your face is a mess.’

‘Just bruising,’ he said, and his voice came out stiff and rusty. He touched his face gingerly, felt the swelling.

‘You eaten?’

‘No.’ He heard his voice as if from a long way away, as if he was watching this odd little tableau play out on a stage in a vast, echoing theatre with only him in the audience.

‘Well, you know where the kitchen is. I’ll be in once I’ve finished this stretch. Ten minutes.’ The tall man gestured along the fence with the paintbrush.’

In the kitchen there was instant coffee, bread, a butter dish. A box of green tea bags. Eggs and cold cuts in the fridge and a tub of vanilla protein powder on the counter. He boiled the kettle and made toast while the steam built up to a scream. Green tea, toast and some cold ham; that was fine, he thought, starting to eat. It made his jaw hurt, but he was suddenly terribly hungry.

Presently the tall man clattered in, and whistled his way around the kitchen. He sat at the table opposite with a mug of coffee and a large sandwich.

‘Since when do you drink tea?’

He shrugged, his bruised shoulder twinging at him.

‘I’m not myself today,’ he said, and he kept eating because he didn’t know what else to do.


	3. Kylux: This is the map of my heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/141281180593/this-is-the-map-of-my-heart).

They’re lying in bed and sharing a smoke. Shirtless, sweaty, stealing a furtive moment in the interstices of time between meetings-training-drills. There’s slippage in a ship’s routine if you know where to look for it. Or you create it. Hux creates it because he can; nobody to stop him. It’s as easy as an obscurely-titled diary entry and a feigned excuse and a surreptitious message to Kylo. Back to Hux’s quarters and whatever-may-happen and then the stolen cigarra, almost more intoxicating than the illicit fucking. The taste lingers for longer, too. Hux takes another drag and hands the cigarra back. Kylo mirrors him, drag, hold, pass. Left handed, though - sinister.

The lights are off and the viewport looks out into the flat black of space. _It’s a metaphor_ , Kylo says, sleepy-drunk with smoke curling from his nostrils.

 _Shut the hell up_ , Hux replies. He hates that romantic crap, that Jedi nonsense. Kylo is monstrously melodramatic, insufferable almost always but muscular and rough and malleable in the way Hux likes, so the meetings keep happening and the box of cigarras empties one by one.

Cigarra smoke and sweat and regulation leather boots. Kylo smells musky and dark. He’s shut up, finally, but the cigarra’s almost done, almost spent, almost burning Hux’s fingers. Time’s almost up. Hux takes the last drag. He’s selfish that way. Kylo doesn’t care - he doesn’t even smoke. Didn’t smoke. Didn’t, until Hux got his hands on him. Didn’t do a lot of things until Hux, but Hux doesn’t care about that either. He’s got a ship to run, and melodrama and emotions are for children. He’s here for Kylo’s body, not his soul.

Kylo stirs next to him, arching like a cat. He’s gazing out the viewport and he asks _where are we_ , like a child, as if he couldn’t use the datapad to find out.

 _Mortis_ , says Hux, recalling an ancient history lesson about the star system.

 _Mortis - of death_ , Kylo says with dreamy interest. _Rigor mortis, livor mortis, pallor mortis_. He stretches a hand out and follows a blue vein in Hux’s arm.

 _Keep your morbid fantasies to yourself_ , Hux says severely, but Kylo is too fucked-out to care, fucked-out and fucked up from some pills he took earlier. _Do you have to be high to fuck me_ Hux asked once and Kylo had grinned and said _yes_ and declined to explain further.

He keeps coming back, though.

 _Do you know all the star systems_ asks Kylo and Hux shrugs against the mattress and stubs out the cigarra.

 _I have a good mental map_ he says. Kylo takes Hux’s hand and makes his index finger trace unwillingly from mole to mole on Kylo’s chest, A to B to C. What’s he doing, what nonsense does Hux have to endure now, what are you doing he says, long-suffering.

 _This is the map of my heart_ Kylo says, and he stares out the viewport and laughs at nothing, nothing at all.


	4. Kylux: Dauntless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here.](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/143509801653/lingua-mortua-through-the-woods-in-martial)

Through the woods in martial order  
we ran. Discipline held me firm  
until I found him, black on snow  
like marble, still and stiff and cold.

Vultures turned wide circles above,  
surveilling, waiting for their turn,  
but I swooped down upon him first.  
Duty did not allow me pause

to touch him. And yet, I reached out  
to press a gloved hand to his pulse.  
(When told to know my enemy  
I disobeyed and I loved him

secretly.) A forbidden prayer.  
The blood-stained snow was heresy.  
I brought him home, then, awaiting  
a miracle - a resurrection.

_The last syllables echoed faintly around Corellia’s airy Corusca Hall. There was a brief, genteel silence, and then a ripple of applause began. It built and built until the audience was standing, the great and the good of the First Order united in ferocious, vocal approval. It was some time before the master of ceremonies could be heard._

_Waiting in the wings, Hux smoothed down the rich, royal blue of his jacket and inspected his hair in the reflection of a convenient mirror. He looked wealthy but not gaudy, intellectual but not bookish. Elegant. His military insignia was a tasteful silver glint at his collar. An officer and a gentleman, refined and handsome. He smiled. He had, he thought, an appropriate level of pride in his achievements tonight. To win the Galactic Gold Wreath for Services to the Poetic Arts would, for many men, be a crowning moment. For Hux, the appreciation that the audience had shown for all one hundred and eighty seven stanzas of Dauntless was enough._

_Now the master of ceremonies was speaking. Hux breathed deeply through the minute twinge of nerves._

_‘Please join me in welcoming to the stage our Gold Wreath winner this year, poet, soldier and diplomat General Brendol Hux the Second.’ The battle hymn of the First Order began playing. That was Hux’s cue. He strode forward with a confident smile, knowing that in the front row he would see the radiant face of –_

‘Are you singing to me?’ said Kylo quietly from the bed, his voice barely-there. Hux started, almost dropping his datapad.

‘I might have been humming a little.’

‘It was - nice,’ Kylo said. His eyes closed again. Hux had to admit that lying there, pale and austere with his hair swept back, Kylo looked rather handsome. In a vulnerable sort of way. Hux shuffled his chair a little closer.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, patting Kylo solicitously on his very muscular arm. A disconsolate sound escaped Kylo.

‘Battered,’ he said. ‘Sore.’ His smile was more a baring of teeth.

‘Would you - perhaps a glass of water…’ Hux set his datapad down and stood to reach the jug and glass on a nearby shelf. He carefully poured out half a glass, feeling a frisson of interest at performing a manual task for someone. An intriguing sensation.

When he turned back, Kylo had picked up the datapad and was reading. A flicker of a smile played about his wide mouth. Hux arranged his own face into a faint expression of artistic self-consciousness.

‘Is this yours?’ Kylo said.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Hux, ‘and I thought I might read it to you, I’m rather pleased and er, it was for you, you know.’

‘For me,’ said Kylo, his voice wavering with laughter.

‘Do you… like it?’ asked Hux with sudden intensity. He sat and leaned in, resting an elbow by Kylo’s pillow so that if the mood should arise he could just lean in and–

‘This is kriffing awful,’ Kylo said, dropping the datapad and cracking, laughing in tight, pained breaths. One big hand hovered over his bandaged side. ‘Ah, that hurts.’

There was a long silence, broken only by Kylo’s uncomfortable snorts of laughter.

‘Excuse me,’ said Hux abruptly. ‘I have somewhere else to be. I’m really very busy, you know.’ He stood, picked up his jacket and snatched the datapad up off the bed. At the door he turned and paused, gathering himself to deliver the most withering insult he could think of. ‘Ren, you have _no appreciation for the art of poetry_ ,’ he hissed, and swanned out, slamming the door behind him.


	5. Phasma/OFC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/146319584808/in-which-phasma-finally-gets-a-moment-to-enjoy).

‘Shh— would you— just move to your left a little.’

‘Left is no—’ Phasma’s armoured elbow clanged against the wall and they froze. Silence from outside, at the dog end of a late shift with everyone at dinner. 'No good,’ she finished. Yva giggled into her hollow of Phasma’s throat, the wicked thing, delighted to be misbehaving.

‘Lift me up, then.’ That was easy. Yva was slight and short, and her deft technician’s hands curled into Phasma’s hair as she was hoisted up onto a shelf. She smelled like berry soap and soldered metal; her body was soft and yielding under her severe overalls. She was, blessedly, outside Phasma’s chain of command.

Even the sound of their kissing sounded loud. Yva had a dirty mind and a dirtier mouth, and soon she was not so much kissing Phasma as tongue-fucking her in a way that suggested an oral fixation. Phasma hadn’t touched a woman in months, caught between duty and fatigue, and already she was wet and throbbing against the leather pants under her armour.

Yva had been priming her for days, sending instant messages through Ordr.

_Have you ever fingered someone with those gauntlets?_

_I just spent an hour queening one of your stormtroopers, guess which?_

_Nobody can tell when you go commando under overalls :)_

Phasma managed to find the zipper to those overalls and tugged it down, trying desperately not to be too hasty. She knew she’d failed. Yva gave a bright laugh, quickly stifled.

‘Listen, you,’ Phasma told her in a mock growl, nipping her neck just under her ear. Yva gasped, and then gasped again as Phasma slipped her hand inside the bright orange overalls and down. Despite her messages, Yva wasn’t naked underneath. Phasma didn’t care, though: she had on shorts thin enough that the damp heat of her cunt came right through. With a satisfied sigh, Yva arched against Phasma’s hand. Her head fell back and, in the half-light of the supply closet, Phasma could just about make out the long, dark line of her throat.

Yva’s blunt nails scratched impatiently across Phasma’s scalp, making her shiver deliciously. It had been so long. She stroked Yva over her shorts a few times, exploring, remembering how to read want and need in the woman’s body and breath. A subtle art that had no place in Phasma’s daily life.

‘Come on,’ Yva said, ‘shift changes soon.’ Phasma huffed, pretending to be put out; Yva, she understood, enjoyed the chase, enjoyed thinking she was getting away with something. She shifted her weight, pinning Yva against the wall, and slid her hand down, skin on skin. Yva was so warm that she could almost have been a Zeltron, running hot and slick against Phasma’s hand. Phasma had a brief moment to wish she’d removed more of her armour, and then Yva managed to squirm her way forward, wriggling herself onto Phasma’s fingers. Phasma angled her wrist, pressed the pad of her thumb up against Yva’s clit and rolled her hand a little.

The rush of Yva’s breath was hot against Phasma’s cheek, in-out, in-out, quick, needy pants. Her braids trailed over her shoulder and brushed against Phasma’s jaw. Phasma had to bite her lip to focus. She pressed her thighs together, metal grinding. Yva’s coordination was slipping away, the easy roll of her hips against Phasma’s fingers stuttering; her hands fluttered over Phasma’s armour, half-trying to find a way inside.

‘Hurry up,’ said Yva, half-swallowing the words in a moan, but she was already coming, pulsing wetly on Phasma’s hand. She held herself up on her slim little arms and ground herself forward, fucking herself on Phasma’s fingers. Phasma’s cunt tightened too, trapped untouched behind her armour. When Yva came, she buried her face in Phasma’s neck, whimpered through it, arching.

‘Fuck,’ Phasma said succinctly into the dead, quiet air of the storage closet. Yva didn’t reply; instead, she slid off the shelf and onto her knees, and began fumbling at the fasteners of Phasma’s armour. Her quick, clever hands had no trouble finding the hidden catches that released the crotch plate. She pulled away the leather flap underneath and Phasma had to grab hold of the shelf in front of her to stay upright when, finally, Yva pressed her mouth up to Phasma skin and licked her in a long, smooth stripe.

Phasma had always prided herself on being the one to do the chasing. And to be able to hold for longer than a very teenaged three and a half minutes. Yva was alarmingly talented, though, and Phasma had waited for so long. The shelving unit creaked quietly and Phasma buried her chin in her chest, watching Yva eat her out. Her long, black eyelashes fanned out over her cheekbones, and every now and then Phasma saw a little flash of pink tongue. Yva barely had to do anything, just flicker her tongue over Phasma’s clit. The sound Phasma made was shockingly loud and she clapped a hand over her mouth to stop it. Yva pulled away and wiped her chin with the back of her hand. Her smile was bright and white and Phasma smiled back. She hardly ever smiled these days. People hardly ever saw her without her helmet, anyway.

The air smelled like sex and berries and dust and metal; Phasma would never be able to walk into another closet again without remembering this. Yva grinned, watching as Phasma put her armour back together with weak hands.

‘Hey, do you get private quarters?’

‘You’re a public menace, girl.’ Phasma opened the door slowly, taking a quick, reconnoitring look outside. They slipped out of the closet. The door clicked closed behind them and Yva let out another of her dirty giggles.

‘What’s the joke, Technician?’ Phasma managed not to jump six inches off the ground at the sound of Hux’s voice behind her. His forced, awkward joviality was typical; his being on D6 deck before the final shift change was not.

‘Laughing with relief, General, sir! Just undertook a very sensitive technical operation, sir!’

‘Good. Well done. Carry on, Technician. Captain,’ he said politely to Phasma, who inclined her helmeted head in response, not trusting her voice yet. Hux strode on down the corridor, his hands clasped behind his back and his skinny legs made comical by his jodhpurs.

‘So, are you free later?’ Yva asked, tilting her head like a little dark bird. Phasma watched Hux’s back retreat around the corner and hesitated. ‘Come on. General’s orders.’

‘Well, when you put it like _that_ ,’ Phasma reasoned. She flipped open her datapad to check her schedule. ‘An hour?’

‘Better make it two,’ said Yva, and laughed her bright, filthy laugh again.


	6. Hux/Niral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/149235674058/a-little-something-about-a-young-hux-trying).

_‘But won’t you be there?’_

_‘Don’t whine, there’s a pet - perhaps I’ll send you a present, instead.’_

Hux was turning twenty-one. Naturally, this week Niral was on Dagobah, a foetid swamp of a planet; he regretted his absence extremely, sent a charming card and, true to his word, the small, flat box, ribbon-wrapped. It had taken Hux all day to find a quiet place to unwrap it. Unsure of what to expect but burning with vicious curiousity, he ripped into the paper and pulled off the lid. 

‘ _Kriff_ ,’ Hux mouthed to himself, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The burgundy tissue paper had unfolded in thick layers, parting to unveil the gift nestled inside. A pale grey, luminous like moonlight. He brushed the fabric with his fingertips. The finest, thinnest silk. He pulled it out. 

There were two pieces. A camisole, with thin straps and the narrowest touch of lace at the hem, and a pair of shorts, similarly embellished. The silhouette, Hux saw, would be much like a regulation gym singlet, square and simple. It was very much not a gym singlet, though. He could wear it under his uniform without any indication that anything was amiss. The set was so terribly light; there would be no hiding in it. His breath echoed raggedly off the tiled refresher walls.

As if by magic, his communicator buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out, almost dropped it.

 _It’s midnight on Dagobah_ , Niral wrote. _Happy birthday, Hux_. Hux tried to think of a suave reply, his hands sweating. As he wavered, his communicator buzzed again. _Come to dinner at Uxa’s tomorrow night. 20 00 hours. Wear something pretty_.

Hux reached for the buttons of his shirt. He’d try it on, first. Just to be sure.


	7. Reysma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/149250279263/prompt-reysma-vs-lesbian-stereotypes-modern-au).

‘Oh,’ says Rey from the kitchen, after the crash and the shatter of glass and the cat’s pained yowl all fade back into suburban silence. 

‘What the hell did you do?’ Phasma appears in the doorway, cradling Armitage and petting his scruffy ginger fur with a gentle hand.

‘The shelf came down.’ Rey stands surrounded by glass, bare-footed and holding a jar of her Auntie Maz’s pickles in one hand, made wide-eyed by the mess. Phasma doesn’t quite have it in her to be angry. ‘I’ll sweep up,’ Rey says earnestly, still uncertain of her new place in Phasma’s house, in her life. ‘You might have to fix the shelf, though.’

The shelf might be fixable, but the wall’s in a bad way too, the plaster torn off in a big chunk. Phasma shrugs, and winces as Armitage squeaks and clings with his claws.

‘I’ll call someone in,’ she says. Rey stares.

‘Is it really bad?’

‘It’ll mend, I just can’t do it myself.’

‘Oh,’ Rey says again. ‘I just assumed you were, you know. Handy.’ She says it quietly, like it’s a dirty word.

Phasma looks at Rey, her skinny little girlfriend, a proudly-out bisexual since approximately three weeks ago when it became impossible to hide their relationship from her overbearing mother. Rey’s been trying a lot of things out lately, testing the waters. They both have. Phasma bites her tongue, and remembers being nineteen well over a decade ago, and smiles.

‘Stay still, sweetheart,’ she says, ‘there’s glass everywhere.’ She drops Armitage to the floor and goes to fetch the broom.


	8. Kylux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/149527414008/kylux-for-the-first-line-why-did-you-come).

‘Why did you come?’ Kylo couldn’t meet Hux’s eyes and couldn’t form an answer. Why indeed? Because he was fascinated by the general. Because sitting alone in his quarters night after night was wearing. Because he knew Snoke wouldn’t condone it. Because it had been so long since he touched another person. There was no malice in Hux’s voice, but none of Kylo’s truthful answers would suffice. Hux was not a man who understood or approved of emotional appeals.

‘Why not?’ Kylo said instead, artificially casual. He stepped forward over the threshold, over the point of no return. Hux’s eyes followed him, looking hungry.

'Why did you come?’ Hux hissed, so quietly that Kylo’s mask could barely pick it up. 'This is a meeting about military strategy.’

'I was summoned,’ Kylo told him stubbornly. They stood shoulder to shoulder in the tiny anteroom, awaiting Snoke’s call. Hux was so jealous of these meetings. He seemed to believe that a summons was an expression of trust, of favour. He didn’t like to share. Never mind that Kylo had his own personal connection to Snoke. Hux, no more Force-sensitive than a lampshade, could conceptualise the chain of command only in the crudest terms. They could not command together; therefore, one of them had to be at the top of the hierarchy. Snoke had never said it out loud, but Hux assumed that he was in charge.

'Absolute nonsense,’ muttered Hux, unable to question Snoke. 'A complete waste of time.’

'Nevertheless,’ Kylo said, letting himself be amused, 'here I am.’ Hux grimaced, and laced his arms behind his back.

'Why did you come?’ Kylo asked, his face burning agony down one side. The rest of him was numb from the snow. His side had hurt for so long that he almost didn’t feel it any more. Hux gazed down at him, pale face impassive under his black cap.

'Regrettably, your presence is still required.’

'By you?’

'By the Supreme Leader.’ Hux paused, and his mouth rippled in that tight, awkward way that meant he was repressing emotion. 'But I am not lacking in concern for you, Ren.’ He turned and gestured sharply to his men, and they converged on Kylo with medical supplies and a stretcher, working with crisp efficiency.

The light seemed to fade away; Kylo was falling, drifting down a long, dark well. Above him the voices receded into silence, and his eyes slid closed. It felt like falling asleep.


	9. Hux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/149574595563/prompt-hux-distracting-his-professors-in-class).

Hidden in a complex nest of files, innocuously-labelled, Hux keeps a clutch of material. A list, a calendar, and a precious few dozen photos. While some men might attempt to commit the contents to memory alone, Hux likes to be prepared for all possible eventualities. If forcibly breached, the coding around the files will delete the contents; if copied, they will reveal nothing but blank screens. He is very careful, applying himself to the collection of material in the same meticulous way he fulfils his academic assignments. Hux suspects that, in time, his small but powerful cache of information will impart to him a more particular education than all of his tutors and professors combined.

On Primeday, Hux pinches his cheeks in the ‘fresher before mathematics, bringing a bright blush to his face. He sits at the front, teacher’s pet, rests his chin on his hand. Corporal Kerris tries hard not to look at him for the first hour. By the end of the second, he’s leaning in close to show Hux how to work a problem that Hux could have solved in his head.

 _Kerris: likes the ingenue act_ , he types later. _Consider arranging extra tuition_.

Every Centaxday afternoon is taken up with drills. In the changing room, the other cadets strip efficiently with the attitude of long practice. Nobody is body-shy anymore. That’s a luxury that was beaten out of them in the first few weeks. Spying Instructor Galhanis out in the hall, Hux takes a few steps away from his locker and turns his back to pull his undershirt over his head. Galhanis, meaty and broad and with the intellect of a tauntaun, talks a lot about fucking women and making men out of the cadets. Out here, on a tiny moon, there are no women to speak of, but Hux has pale, smooth skin and a narrow waist and long eyelashes, and he uses them like a weapon.

That night, he adds an image to his file. Galhanis is too stupid to cover his tracks.

Taungsdays are always nightmarishly tedious. Hux can’t stand astrogeography. This week they’re in the visualisation suite, dark little cubicles with bright pinpricks of light on the ceiling to indicate planets. Professor Ulta has no interest in men. To amuse himself, Hux jerks off his study partner under the desk.

‘You owe me, Teho,’ he hisses afterwards. He will collect that debt at some point; Teho is spineless but he’s an absolute wizard at xenolinguistics. He marks the favour on the list in his file.

Last Zhellday’s bruises are still blue shadows on Hux’s knees. Lieutenant Vuuk is relentless. Hux doesn’t mind sucking dick, usually, but Vuuk likes him to be uncomfortable, never gives Hux enough time to throw his jacket on the floor. As the keeper of the precious passes that allow cadets to leave the compound, Vuuk is an important resource. His sadism is petty and tedious, the mark of a small and unimaginative mind. Hux considers it a valuable learning experience, though. He learns to whimper, and make his eyes tear up, and choke convincingly. Vuuk likes to thing he forces Hux into it.

‘Th— thank you, sir,’ he says afterwards, lying with his whole body, and accepts the pass with an artificially hesitant hand.

Benduday may be a half-day, but they still have to sit in the hall before lunch and listen to the week’s failures and notices. Now in possession of a leave pass, Hux will be out of the Academy’s boundaries the very minute they’re dismissed. He just has to be patient another hour.

'Commendations this week to Cadets Ang, Ferris, Luvok and Sook,’ drones the Commandant. 'And following a semester of excellent work, Cadet Hux has been selected for the advanced program.’ A chorus of envious groans goes around the room. Hux smiles blandly, and mentally amends his list.


	10. Niral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/150666348258/for-the-ailing-badspacebabies-that-niral).

Niral let his eyes fall half-closed and idly rubbed his fingers along the lavish shimmersilk bedclothes. It was a ludicrously over-decorated bedroom in the Dagoban style taken almost to the point of bad taste, but the luxury could not be faulted. Luxury was a rare commodity on this planet. And it was very conveniently located, with a well-stocked bar of which Niral had taken assiduous advantage, and was on the cusp of regretting. Besides, for the moment it was having a most gratifying effect on— on— well, Niral had inexcusably forgotten the boy’s name, but he was quite sure that it began with F. Or S. At any rate, it wasn’t Hux, which Niral found himself rather sorry about. Not Hux, and not even that delicious little blond from Remenos IV, with the blue eyes, who would have been a pleasant second choice.

Truth be told, he had hardly thought about the blond in weeks. Months, even. Business had happened to keep him around Corellia, for one, but he also could not deny that he found himself oddly charmed by Hux’s unpracticed nonchalance and his vaguely embarrassed eagerness. It was passing strange to call any product of the Academy unspoiled and yet, from his unfinished social graces to his delightfully gawky sexual performance, Hux did indeed seem to possess a curious sort of innocence. Sometimes in moments of rest or inattention, when his guard was down, the boy seemed almost to glow with it. That sort of youth was a precious commodity that Niral was very happy to have, for with each passing year—

‘Damn it,’ he said, alarmed, and sat up, dislodging Ferro— dislodging Ser— the young man, who looked insulted through his mop of brown curls and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand in a most unappealing manner.

‘What is it?’

'I have to— blast it, where’s that button?’ Niral fumbled under the edge of the nightstand until he found the droid call button, and moments later a sleek grey servant droid rolled in.

'What do you require?’ asked the droid in a monotone.

'I need you to make a purchase, forge a passable handwritten card and send the whole damn lot as a gift to the Academy, Corellian moon six.’

'Please indicate the gift to be purchased.’

Niral hesitated for a moment, recalling the name. 'Er, fire off a message to Alinna’s, that little lingerie place on Tralus. I have an account there. Request something gamine and silky in blue or grey or something.’

'The size, sir?’ Niral turned to scrutinise the pouting lad on the bed, framing him with his hands and then shaking his head.

'Bit smaller than him - oh, perhaps a 5J? Quite long in the legs, though.’

'And the message?’

'Dear Hux - many happy returns. Business detaining me in the Sorii system. Regret absence extremely and will catch up with you properly when I return. Hope the colour suits. Yrs, Niral, etc. Don’t add the etcetera; that was rhetorical.’

'Recipient’s name?’

'Armitage Hux. Dorm twelve, I believe, but you can send it straight there, they’ll figure the whole thing out. Thanks, old chap.’ The droid burbled and trundled away. Niral lay back down on the bed, head swimming a touch from the brandy and feeling oddly maudlin.

'I suppose you just expect me to pretend that never happened?’ said the boy, arms folded across his chest. Niral stared at him.

'There’s absolutely no call to be rude,’ he said, vaguely aware of the hypocrisy contained within that statement.

'I’m just supposed to keep on, as if you hadn't—’ the boy trailed off as Niral kissed him viciously, irked by the chatter, and soon enough he was sliding back down the bed to resume the proceedings. Niral stared up at the ceiling again, and tried to will himself to be interested. His orgasm was unsatisfying; the boy flounced away in a very unnecessary manner.

 _Hux would never have_ , Niral found himself thinking, but he was asleep before he had finished the thought.


	11. Kylux: Cave canem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/post/154235196548/cave-canem).

‘Force preserve me,’ breathed the ambassador, ‘is that…?’

‘Kylo Ren,’ Hux said, the corner of his mouth quirking up. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘We heard he was dead!’ A shrill, nervous note crept into the portly man’s voice. ‘We heard he perished on Takodana!’

‘Evidently not,’ Hux replied.

‘What happened to him?’ The ambassador’s wife spoke up for the first time. She hovered behind her husband, his bulk almost obscuring her skinny form. Hux leaned forward a little to address her.

‘His mind is broken. An untrained scavenger girl crushed his wits like a bug.’ This time, the smile crawling across Hux’s features was unmistakably smug. He knew it, and could not stop it. He did not want to; had he not earned this delicious moment of victory? Of total domination over his ex-rival? ‘I must say, I was disappointed. He was described to me as a individual of great talents and great power.’

‘Is he dangerous?’ The wife again, sounding a little awed at Hux’s control. His power.

‘Not if one is conversant with the proper training techniques. It takes a strong hand, Lady Anlora.’

‘I suppose you’re going to tell us you taught him to balance a ball on his nose,’ the ambassador said, smiling in a rather sickly way. The corner of Hux’s mouth twitched with amusement.

‘I had thought to train him to catch treats, but these things are time-consuming and sometimes one’s schedule just doesn’t permit…’

‘But he acquiesces to you?’ Anlora’s voice was wondering, thick with fascination. Hux saw the dynamic quite clearly; the cautious, simpering husband, the power-hungry, conniving wife. He made a gallant gesture with his hand, beckoning her forward.

‘Oh yes. He certainly does. Please, allow me to demonstrate.’

He slid a stun baton from his belt and stepped forward to press his palm to the biometric scanner on the cage. Joy surged in him. His dog screamed with anguish—and obeyed.


End file.
